


A Litany of Unsound Desires

by Jakowic



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, M/M, monsoons, white collar au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: Han’s jacket smells like sandalwood soap and lemongrass, reminds Luke of the summers he spent out on Uncle Obi-wan’s ranch, standing on the veranda, watching the rain pour and pour and pour.(White Collar AU)





	A Litany of Unsound Desires

**Author's Note:**

> in order to keep myself motivated, im gonna post this in chapters but when it's finished i'll make it a oneshot. here's the first one, don't worry, there IS a plot. i know what's gonna happen or whatever, it's just unedited stuff currently. so cool thanks

He’s considered a genius of his generation, celebrated among his peers like some notable man, like a prodigy. The truth is, he’s some scrawny twenty-one-year-old pulled from a desert with a legacy strapped to him. He doesn’t feel like the things they say about him, he barely feels like he deserves to be standing here, graduating so young and being promoted so fast. He’s clipped onto the title of golden detective but everyone around the office just calls him ‘Skywalker’ with varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s not that he’s bad at his job - he’s great at it, efficient and fast, even - it’s that no one likes a kid. He’s only twenty-one, been in the academy since he was nineteen, the Alliance having made changes to the rule book in accordance with the growing size of the Imperialists, a code name for one of the biggest terrorist and organized crime groups in the galaxy. No one really understands him, his lonely upbringing on a planet made more of dust than people, or the gift he’s been given that cuts him precisely apart from all the others in the Alliance. He’s left alone, the only kid on the block unassigned a partner. Chief Huberta says it’s unnecessary, and he works temporarily with the heads of the department that are in the precinct involving case he’s looking in on. He’s been in the White Collar district in Anaxes for four years and he has made… not enemies, certainly, but no friends either.

White Collar is a huge office building with at least three sects within and a ship hangar that juts out the back, but the center of it is the detective offices, right in the heart of the structure. It’s three storeys big, the roof a glass dome that allows sunlight to drench the detectives at all hours. It’s truly beautiful; the bottom floor is where all the officers are stationed, lovingly referred to as the fishbowl, setup with desks and communication panels and a conference room. The second floor is home to the chief’s and inspector’s offices, which no one really goes up to, only sometimes Huberta calls Luke up to give him a case. The third floor is the canteen floor, where the sun spends all it’s time warming the linoleum floors -- but barely reaches the bottom of the fishbowl except at high noon, so all the light is murky or artificial.

The chatter of the fishbowl is unsettling, the blip of communicators and reports being filed are cacophonous and it makes Luke grit his teeth. Detectives and their partners slide past his desk, talking on their way out and on their way in, irritating him. He can’t escape it because his desk is closest to the door and there’s no reason for him to be doing anything but paperwork. He wants a case, or at least an excuse to leave. 

“Skywalker,” Huberta says, like she can read his mind. “Get in here.”

She’s leaning on the railing, looking over her rimless glasses down into the fishbowl, where seven other officers and their partners are sitting. The conversation drops to a murmur and the clacking on keyboards slows. Luke looks up from where he’s reading a report and sees the stern set of her mouth. Grinning, he gets up and saunters to the elevator, fully aware of each heavy stare pressing into his back. He sets his shoulders in a straight line and punches in the number for her office.

When he walks in, she’s sitting in her chair writing something down. He hovers by the door while she finishes, and only comes inside when she looks up. The circles under her eyes are darker than normal, and she takes off her glasses, dropping them onto the desk as he takes a seat. She presses the heels of her palms into her eye sockets and lets out a shuddering breath into the cool morning air of her office. The door slides shut with the airtight hiss and Luke lets the silence grow on her. Huberta is a sturdy woman with a shock of silver hair pulled into a neat bun and sharp green eyes. She’s ruthless and stern, and Luke has never seen her tired before.

“I’ve got a case,” she mumbles at her desk. “The department is on me to handle it and I’m out of ideas.” she looks up at him and she looks almost -- apologetic. “You’ve got to understand, this is our last resort.” 

Luke looks at her with growing apprehension. Huberta slowly slides a manila folder across the desk to him. Something like regret sharpens her features when Luke picks up the cover and flips it open. He watches her, waiting to see if there’s any further explanation forthcoming. When she remains silent, mouth set in a grim line, Luke looks down at the folder.

“Oh, hell no,” he says.

“Skywalker,” Huberta starts, sounding tired.

“No,” he stands up. “I just put him behind bars!”

He can feel rage and frustration start to fill his every vein. He worked for three years to get this guy, chasing him tirelessly on fruitless leads and ditching most of his personal life to achieve what no one else ever has. Han Solo had been on the top of the Most Wanted list for ages before Luke got him, finally. Smuggler or art thief or con-man or whatever he wanted to call himself, Luke Skywalker fought for this victory and he’s loath to give it up so easily. Luke’s hands are shaking at the very idea, the even slightest chance that all his work could be undone with a few signatures and a stamp. 

“And we need him,” she grounds out. She stands, too, palms flat on her desk, leaning over, expression twisted and flattened into a total poker face, a sign of Huberta’s utmost rage. “He’s been in and out of Imperialist controlled airspace before -- Skywalker, _ Luke _,” the use of his full name makes him snap to attention. “He’s our very best bet.”

Luke scowls, thinking. “I’m on the case?”

Huberta shrugs. “I figured: you studied him for three years. If anyone can keep him in check, it’s you.”

Luke jerks his head to stare out the window. Huberta lets him. She can feel that she’s won already. It’s cloudless outside as it always is on Anaxes, but the heat is never as unbearable as it was on Tatooine. 

“Fine,” he grounds out. He sticks his hands in his pockets and forces the tension from his body, locks away the rage at the idea and puts it in a tiny little corner of his brain.

Huberta’s smile is bloodless and unkind. “Luke Skywalker, you’ve just been assigned a new partner.”

[ - - - ]

It’s cloudy on Mortonu, which is all the way in system 67-B. It’s a tiny little system of planets, every one but Mortonu uninhabited, mostly overlooked in the initial forming of factions. System 67-B is placed in a strategically advantageous spot in the universe, surrounded by entirely Alliance controlled systems, so 67-B and all the planets within are untouchable -- which, in Alliance terms, translates to _ prison. _There are three moons visible from Mortonu’s ground on a clear night, but Luke was told there are at least five (two of which orbit each other around Mortonu). There’s no continents, only a string of islands on Mortonu; three of which hold maximum security towers built twenty storeys high for high offense felons, and one island that holds just a regular old prison, meant to house at least three thousand prisoners and five thousand guards. 

(The guards call the prison Joyville and the towers Grievous, Dooku and Ventress, respectively. Luke had learned that on his tour of Mortonu two years ago. It’s hard to shake the image of an unhappy man laughing at the unhappiness of other people. Luke doesn’t really talk to prison guards anymore.) 

Luke’s leaning against his speeder outside the prison gate, twirling the keys in his hand absentmindedly. He whistles out a tune that must’ve wormed its way into his head sometime this morning before work. The sentries standing guard throw him a funny look. 

The gate is less of a gate and is more of a huge chain link fence, which opens out from a concrete courtyard thirty meters long -- and just beyond that, the brown stony face of Joyville. Something about it makes Luke uneasy; Joyville reminds him of a hibernating Zillo beast, just waiting to wake and devour the world. 

Luke’s looking up at the sky, contemplating the clouds and serenading the air when a loud warning tone signals the opening of the gate. The yellow outlet tower with a control woman sitting there flashes red lights, asking the sentries to be on alert. Luke straightens and looks over to the gate. It’s like time slows. Two officials flank each side as they march him toward Luke. There he is, dressed in a white jumpsuit with his hands shackled in front of him, the product of three years of Luke’s tireless efforts.

It tastes rather sour in the back of his throat.

He pushes off the speeder and wanders over to meet the officers that are holding him tightly. Han Solo looks bedraggled and sickly, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks and he hasn’t showered. Luke takes the clipboard the guards proffer him, takes his time to read the fine print before signing. The whole time, Luke avoids looking in their eyes. The key to Han’s shackles is presented to him with some ironic ceremony. He smiles sardonically at them, slipping onto his keyring and shoving the keys deep into his pocket. He can feel Han’s hungry eyes following his every movement. The guards back off when he’s finished, which Luke isn’t entirely sure follows protocol, but he doesn’t really care.

“Hey, kid,” Han says. “Nice suit.”

Han’s voice is raspy, underused. His hands look red and cracked, nails peeling off the tips of his fingers, bloody and raw. Luke can catch a whiff of bleach from where he’s standing as Han tosses his head, shaking the greasy strands of hair out of his eyes. His stubble is patchy and dark, eyes sad and drooping. Han clears his throat, and it sounds like he’s choking back mucus.

Luke turns away without a word, hands slipping into his pockets and fingers curling around the keys to his speeder. He can hear the rattle of Han’s chains as he follows Luke. He obediently climbs into the passenger seat when Luke opens the door for him, jangling the whole time. Luke grits his teeth against the sharp _ ting _of the noise. The sound the door makes when he slams it is almost satisfying. 

It starts pouring almost immediately after Luke climbs into the speeder, a huge crack-down end-of-the-world type rain, like an entire ocean is being dumped on the planet via clouds. Han and Luke both look at the wall of water in silence for a moment, the sound of raindrops hitting the roof of the speeder hard and fast drowning out their breathing. It’s unsettling, because Luke can’t even see the lights of the prison through the rain and it feels, just for a moment, as if he and Han are the only two people left in the entire galaxy.

Shaking off that thought and frowning to himself, Luke presses the key against the console, to which the speeder lights up instantly, warm blue glow a welcome sight.

“So,” Han says when they start on the road to the air hangar, a suitable sixty miles from the prison, near the beach on the opposite end of island. Apparently he’s talkative. “How was your year without me? Boring, I hope. I was bored.”

Luke rolls his eyes and urges the accelerator to a probably lethal speed. Han is keeping his chains quiet, which Luke appreciates. He narrows his eyes at the road, hoping to see anything that could kill them. Han natters on in the passenger seat, Luke gets the feeling he hadn’t really talked at all for the past year and just loves the sound of his own voice. He still sounds exhausted, raspy and ruined, but it doesn’t seem to be stopping him.

“-- so why don’t you just give me the key,” Han is saying when Luke tunes back in. 

Luke furrows his brows and backtracks through the conversation, attempting to figure out where that segue could’ve come from. “What,” he says, and then, “No.”

“I’m chafing!” Han says.

“I don’t care,” Luke returns.

Han falls into a sullen silence for the rest of the ride, which Luke basks in. Han has a pleasant voice, easy to tune out, but Luke prefers the sound of no talking. He suspects it comes from a long life of not being the loudest in the room. 

Luke can see the bright spotlights from the runway through the curtain of water just up ahead. He slowly lets off the accelerator, maneuvering down the narrow dirt path to the concrete. There are air traffic controllers scurrying around, lighting up the road for them. The door to the hangar lifts up and he can hear the mechanical crunch of the ship being pulled out. Luke hears Han shift, sitting up straighter to stare hungrily as the looming shape of Luke’s ship appears through the water. Han lets out a breath, a tiny, happy little sound.

“Oh, Luke, you kept her for me,” Han says reverently.

The _ Millenium Falcon _ had sat in some junker’s warehouse, untouched, when Luke had dug up the serial number for the ship, tracking it all the way to the outer regions of Alliance territory. He’d spent twenty minutes attempting to convince the guy he needed it for evidence before giving up and just paying for it. He’d restocked all of the necessary things, even spent two days deep cleaning the inside and polishing the outside. The ship is a pile of junk, but the truth of the matter is Luke can’t imagine a universe where Han Solo is without the _ Falcon — _ and the _ Falcon _needs her captain.

She sits imposing, now, a true sight with the backdrop of rough seas and heavy rainfall, making the white paint stand out against the grey, like the glow of a ghost. Luke taps a button on his speeder and the _ Falcon _’s hatch lowers, opening to the hold. He drives up inside and gets out of he speeder. R2-D2 zips over to him, beeping incessantly. Luke sticks the keys in his pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he tells R2-D2 distractedly. He pats the droid on its top as he heads to the passenger side and opens the door for Han, helping him out. 

“Oh, wow,” Han says. He blinks, and Luke looks away, discomfited by the starstuck expression on Han’s face.

For a minute, Han just stands and breathes, adjusts to really being outside the prison, looking with starved eyes at his beloved junk heap. Luke lets him for awhile, loitering self-consciously as Han spins in a circle, looking at everything like he’s trying to memorize it. Han stops spinning, and the tension melts from his body, and he looks like the Han Solo Luke put away one year, fifteen days and four hours ago. Luke looks away, something clawing at his insides and tangling them up. That’s it, that’s enough vertigo, Luke decides, and takes him to the medbay. He sits Han down on the cot and rummages around for the salve he knows he put somewhere in the cabinets. Han watches him with rapt interest.

“I never really had supplies in here,” he says. And when Luke doesn’t respond, “Can I fly?”

“No,” Luke says on automatic, and looks to R2-D2, who’s sitting in the doorway. “Artoo, please get us outta here? Let air traffic know.”

R2-D2 beeps affirmative and zooms off to the cockpit. When Luke turns back to him, Han’s doing his best impression of mortally offended, expression pulled into some weird half-grimace half-scowl that makes him look like he pulled a muscle and farted at the same time. Luke snorts and rolls his eyes.

“For a droid, kid? Cold-hearted,” Han informs him solemnly.

“Watch it.” Luke sits beside him. “That droid is worth ten of you.”

Han eyes him warily, and Luke ignores him, taking out the paper envelope tucked in his shirt pocket, under his jacket and waves it in Han’s face, attempting casual and missing by a mile. It bears the Alliance insignia and he delights in the curious spark that lights in Han’s eyes. Luke puts the salve tin on his knee, slides to fingers under the envelope flap and pulls out the device inside. Han looks at it, and Luke sort of loves the confused crease between his eyebrows as he stares. It’s a tiny black circle, no bigger than a quarter, one side with tiny silver spikes protruding. Luke, very carefully, keeps the flat end balanced on his index and middle finger. The _ Falcon _shakes slightly as they take off.

“Okay,” Han says. “I’ll bite.”

Luke moves, quick, pressing his fingers to Han’s neck like he’s checking for a pulse, pressing. He feels the little click as the device implants in Han’s skin. Han inhales sharply, reaching up to cover Luke’s hand with his own, so they’re just sitting there, Luke touching Han’s neck, Han keeping him from pulling away. His eyes are wide, shocked. The betrayal in Han’s expression whacks Luke in the gut like a baseball bat. He can feel his defenses starting to fly up, and scrambles to pull himself together. He yanks away, and shuffles down the cot until there’s about a foot of space between them.

Luke can’t look at Han. “It’s a tracking device,” he tells the metal wall. “You can’t take it out, it’s DNA coded to me and Chief Huberta Kranz. Anyone in the Alliance with your track code can find you, no matter where you are. It’s in case you do manage to give me the slip.”

“Oh,” Han says after a beat, sounding marginally less perturbed.

Luke chances a glance at him. “It might itch.”

Han scratches at it experimentally. “Yeah.”

“And now,” Luke says, pulling his keys out of his pocket. Han lifts his wrists, and Luke can see how wrecked they are. They were slender, knobby, a forger’s hands, callused from piloting before Luke caught him. Now, the skin around his wrists are chafed and his hands are dry, cracked and bleeding. Luke shifts closer and Han does smell, overwhelmingly, of bleach. He leans away, wrinkling his nose. “You need a shower,” he says.

Han rolls his eyes. “Thanks for that,” he shakes his wrists at Luke, rattling the chains and making Luke grit his teeth. 

Luke reaches out, tugs him closer by the shackles. He unlocks the cuffs, lets them clatter to the ground. Han rubs his wrists, scratching absentmindedly at the peeling skin, eyes on Luke. Luke twists the lid off the tin and scoops the goop into his hand. It’s a clear, thick paste, smells faintly of lavender. He rubs it on the palms of his hands so it’s not cold. When he reaches out for Han’s wrists, slowly, waiting for him to jerk away, he’s surprised by the quiet compliance.

Han hisses, low in his throat, when Luke rubs the salve onto his ruined hands. Leia, when they were younger, had dry skin from being growing up inside a palace rather than the desert. The sudden climate change hadn’t agreed with her body, and Luke used to rub the same stuff on her back. He knows how to be gentle and Han doesn’t make another sound. 

“Shower,” Luke says, pulling away and standing. “We got your jacket from evidence and some new clothes.”

“Oh, nice,” Han says.

“I wouldn’t pull anything,” Luke calls over his shoulder as he leaves the medbay. “That tracking device will electrocute you if you try.”

[ - - - ]

Anaxes is sunny when they land, the tarmac warm from the light as they clamber out of the _ Falcon. _Han pats the hull affectionately, dressed in his brown leather jacket and street clothes. The boots he’s wearing are the same type Luke wears in the field, black and steel toe reinforced. He’s pulled on fingerless gloves, hiding his damaged skin from the word. He’s shaved, and the smudges around his eyes are fading. He looks less homeless, except he’s pulled a hat over his hair, which is long and fluffy now, in a vain attempt to keep it from falling in his face.

“Ah, sunlight, I’ve forgotten what you feel like,” Han says, sliding past Luke down the ramp and spreading his arms. He drops the duffel Luke gave him onto the concrete and spins slowly, face tilted toward the sky, faint smile on his face. 

Luke pauses on the ramp, watching him. R2-D2 bangs into the backs of his knees, beeping indignantly. Luke steps aside, grinning at the little droid as it motors after Han. Luke stands beside Han. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine being away from the sunlight for so long he’s forgotten it, tries to imagine cool darkness instead. It doesn’t come, he was raised in the sun, thrives on heat, he can’t really imagine going _ without _for any extended period of time.

He reaches down and picks up the duffel for Han, following R2-D2 as it beeps, rolling toward the shuttlestop. Han shadows him, Luke can feel the disturbance of air where Han moves behind him. It takes fifteen minutes for the shuttle to show up and it’s only when they climb on that Han leans close to Luke.

“What about your speeder?” Han whispers.

Luke jerks away and fixes Han with his most cutting ‘you-are-an-idiot’ stare. “I’m showing you the city, since you’re not allowed to have one yourself. I’ll probably pick you up most days, but, you know, you’re not actually going to be confined to your apartment. Mostly.”

Han rocks back on his heels, sliding his hands into his pockets. He looks around the full shuttle, pressing his shoulder against the window and leaning. Luke reaches up to hook his hand through one of the handles as the driver closes the doors and they start to move. R2-D2 whistles, low, and Luke glances down at it.

It’s twelve more stops from the airport before they start to edge into the city, the decrepit buildings on the edges of Jeroh are usually filled with petty criminals and the poor. Luke likes these buildings, likes the graffiti on the sides of them, the tiny kids playing in the streets as the shuttle hovers past. He’s always thought this side of Jeroh had more personality than downtown, where Luke lives and works. Han lifts his head instantly upon their arrival, like a dog catching a scent of another dog. He watches the brown and black buildings and Luke watches Han’s reflection in the glass. Han’s face is unreadable, but he cranes his neck to watch the receding silhouettes of the apartments as they travel further from uptown.

They get to the office building, Luke tossing Han’s duffel over his shoulder. Han looks up, eyes following the stretch of the domed tower. Luke looks at his profile, wondering what’s going through his head. The sunlight glints off the glass, sparkling enticingly.

“Welcome to White Collar,” Luke says dryly, pushing the door open for Han. “We’re here to put criminals away.”

“Ironic,” Han says. 

Luke leads Han through the lobby, even though he wants to pause and admire the strange impressionist art inspired by Naboo. He spins on his heel, walking backwards alongside Luke, taking in every aspect of White Collar’s lobby, excitement sharp and strange. Luke watches him from the corners of his eyes and Han looks unimpressed, smug and animated all at once. 

They stride into the fishbowl, glass doors sliding open with a hiss. Luke moves to his desk automatically and stops, backtracks mentally, stares, blank. Previously, there had been just Luke’s desk, strewn with papers and a holograph of the latest report from whatever recent case thrown up, lonely and segregated from the other partner desks, crammed close to the door and the elevator, set right next to the busiest areas of the fishbowl. It’d been one chair, one desk, one wastebasket. It was jarring in a room full of desks pressed against each other, two people on either side. An outcast. 

There’s another desk, brand-new, shoved against Luke’s. 

It throws him off so badly he doesn’t even react to Han slipping past, into full view of everyone in the fishbowl as he looks at Luke’s messy belongings and the new desk, shiny and empty. Han grins, delighted. It’s when the silence of the fishbowl registers that Luke’s brain catches up. He looks to the room of silent detectives, every single one of them fixed on Luke and Han, standing still by the door, staring dumbly at the pair of desks.

“Wow, Skywalker,” Detective Andor says. His desk is behind Luke’s, so he doesn’t even have to move. “They finally found someone to put up with you?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Luke says, frowning. 

“No, really,” Andor presses. “We’ve got a bet on that desk. Is it an accident, or do you finally have a partner?”

Han takes that very opportune moment to throw himself into the chair of his desk. Andor and Luke and the entirety of the fishbowl stare at him, as he spins slowly, eyeing the terraces of the above floors, taking in the layout of the White Collar building. He reaches across the desks and snatches a pencil and promptly shoves it into his mouth, chewing. He nods, like he’s approving.

“This’ll do,” Han says. He twirls the pencil and crosses his ankle over his knee, looking at Andor critically.

“Um,” Luke says. 

He turns back to Andor and offers him an awkward smile. He shrugs Han’s duffel off and sets it on Han’s desk, and Han makes a tiny sound. Andoor cocks his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something when R2-D2 zooms past Luke, beelining straight for the elevator like it’s being chased by the devil, screaming the whole way. It’s supremely embarrassing, even more so when no one moves or makes a sound. 

“Okay,” Luke says, grabbing the collar of Han’s jacket and hauling him up. “We have to see Chief, we’ll continue this later.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Han calls back to the stunned fishbowl, as Luke drags him into the elevator. He manages a salute before the doors close. 

Luke stares in disbelief at R2-D2. “What the fuck,” he mutters and releases his grip on Han’s jacket. Han stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking at the droid too. The elevator isn’t moving, but Luke doesn’t have the wherewithal quite yet to face Huberta.

“That went well,” Han offers eventually.

“It did not,” Luke snaps. He rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion finally setting in. Space jet-lag is disgusting. 

“They don’t like you,” Han observes after a long moment.

“Thanks,” Luke says sarcastically, hitting the button for the second floor. “I didn’t know that. Let’s discuss, shall we, the four years of isolation I’ve faced, every excruciating conversation on my way to the canteen, all the horrible pauses after someone realizes I wasn’t assigned a partner. And while we’re at it, why don’t we have a lengthy discussion on how no one likes teacher’s pet, which I am, undoubtedly, and how I spend all my time working because I’ve got no friends.”

Han looks at him sideways. 

“You’ve got baggage,” he remarks.

“You were in prison,” Luke responds, sullen. 

The elevator dings, the doors hiss open and Luke and Han come face-to-face with a frowning Huberta Kranz. Subtly, Han slides half of his body behind Luke, looking inquisitively at her over the top of Luke’s head. R2-D2 rolls to her side, beeping softly, happily. Huberta lays a hand on R2-D2’s head, smiling down at it.

“We could stay here,” she says. “Have a meeting in the hallway, if you like.”

Luke steps out and manages to look sheepish. He and Han trail behind her and R2-D2, chatting amiably. The noise level in the fishbowl has increased, Luke can hear the crackle of holograms and clacking keyboards. Han glances over the railing, watching the casual morning bustle. It’s technically early, half of them still haven’t arrived, so the incident could’ve been worse, comparatively. 

Luke looks, too, and sees how it must be from an outsider's perspective. People in suits and formal wear sitting at their desks or talking to their partners, cradling cups of coffee and looking generally overworked and overtired. All the early arrivals are quietly understood as the workaholics. Luke and Huberta tend to arrive the earliest, even before the canteen cooks. Which is something Han doesn’t have to find out about. Ever.

Huberta shuts her office door with a click.

“Did it go smoothly?” Huberta asks. 

Luke, looking out the window, has to have Han nudge him before he realizes the question was directed at him.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. Great.”

“As you can see,” Han says. “All in one piece,” he spreads his hands sardonically and does jazz hands. Luke looks at him, trying to convey _ you are a dead idiot _with his eyebrows alone. It’s unsuccessful, judging by the way Han tilts his chin, defiant and Huberta’s gaze goes entirely cold.

She tosses a new set of keys at Luke. He catches them and looks. A green keycard for the shuttle, a silver apartment key and an orange White Collar office key. Luke hands them to Han without looking, and reaches for the folded piece of paper sitting on her huge desk. Her’s is organized and mostly clear, unlike Luke’s. It reminds him that he’s still a kid.

“Thanks,” Luke says, looking at the paper and memorizing the address.

“Get out,” Huberta responds.

Luke turns, pulling Han with him, R2-D2 at their heels.

Back in the fishbowl, Andor greets them before they even have a chance to get to their desks. Luke would be surprised if he hadn’t spent part of three years watching Andor chase gossip around the office like a Wampa after human flesh. 

“So, Skywalker,” he falls into step beside them. “He your partner?”

Luke looks up at him, half-irritated, half-watching Han pick up his duffel and kneel down to R2-D2’s level, like he’s talking to a child. Luke tosses the paper onto his desk, sticking his hands in his pockets to fiddle with his own keys. 

“Hmm?” Luke asks, watching Han pick paint off of R2-D2.

“What’s his name, huh? He’s a little scruffy-looking for a detective, don’t you think?” 

Han’s head shoots up and his eyes narrow at Andor, sort’ve like a jaguar ready to kill. Luke grins despite himself. 

“Who’s scruffy?” Han demands, climbing to his feet.

“He’s not a detective,” Luke interjects before Han can start something. “Technically. He’s a consultant.”

Andor tilts his head, studying Han’s layered attire, his gloves, the hair falling into his eyes. “You know, you do look familiar.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Come on, Andor, quit being the inquisition. Where’s your other half?”

“Jyn?” Andor says, glancing around the fishbowl. “Late, probably.”

Jyn Erso is young, like Luke, and he gets along best with her out of everyone in the fishbowl. She’s stand-offish and blunt to the point of rudeness, but around Andor, Erso is thoughtful, and Andor loses his sharp, unlikable edge. It’s symbiotic, and one doesn’t especially work without the other. 

“What’s your girlfriend think about this, huh?” Andor asks, ignoring Luke’s subtle hints to get him to quit being a douchebag. 

Luke wrinkles his nose automatically. “You know Leia’s my sister, Andor.”

Leia stops by, sometimes, if she has the time, dropping off lunch or borrowing R2-D2. She’s always been open with her affection, casually touching Luke and kissing him on the cheek. The confusion often comes from their different surnames, the fact that they’re not identical, and also the bad tendency Leia has to scare people away. Luke says ‘people’ but he really means ‘girls’. It’s like she’s the opposite of a chick magnet. 

He’s seen her, though, the split-second too long look at Erso, the way she lingers when she’s talking to the barista across the street. He knows, he just wishes he knew how to approach it. Talking to Leia about personal things that she hasn’t brought up is like setting a squeeze bomb in the middle of a bunch of toddlers. Not going to end well.

Andor shrugs, already bored with the conversation, watching Tarna Shynth walk to the water cooler. Luke sighs, and edges around him, tapping Han on the elbow as he passes.

“We gotta get outta here, anyway,” he tells Han, who’s busy glaring daggers at Andor for the scruffy comment. 

“Whatever, cool,” Han says, following him out the doors. “Where?”

[ - - - ]

Luke’s honestly just surprised it took him this long to try. Halfway through Luke’s tour of downtown Jeroh, Han had shoved him into someone else and conveniently slipped away in the throng of people. Luke had given chase, but when it became apparent he was chasing shadows, Luke had decided that a battle plan would be good. He’s shoving past people, trying to find a clear space where he can _ think _. R2-D2 whistles and Luke curses under his breath, darting into an alley, getting out of the lunch crowd, which always dominates the plaza near White Collar. He pauses, hands on his knees as he breathes and tries to come up with a plan. 

Han Solo is solo, now where would he go? Luke isn’t actually sure if Han has ever spent any time on Anaxes before, but it doesn’t really matter since air traffic will keep him from jumping planets or even leaving the continent. But a continent is bigger than a city, so it’s merely a momentary relief. 

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. Then, louder, “Fuck!”

_ Great job, Skywalker, you lost an ex-con on the first outing, _some little thorny voice in his head says. Luke scowls, thinking about what use the tracker is if he doesn’t have a holopad to activate it with. It’s such a rookie mistake it’s annoying. His hands itch at his sides, mind racing. He doesn’t have enough time to go back to White Collar in case Han does manage to slip outside the city, so his next best bet is outsmarting him. Which, come on.

Suddenly, it hits him, sharpening his mind in it’s clarity, glaringly obvious like it’s lit up in neon colors. The shitty buildings in uptown Jeroh. Han had looked like he wanted to get off there, earlier. Luke grins, inordinately pleased with himself.

“Artoo,” he says, stepping out onto the sidewalk again. “Where’s the nearest shuttlestop?”

R2-D2 beeps, zooming ahead. Luke sprints after it, startling civilians into jumping out of his way. He follows R2-D2 across the plaza, down a narrow street and past three brightly colored cafes. He arrives just as the shuttle pulls up and he clambers on, R2-D2 on his heels. 

“Sir,” he says to the driver, a little out of breath. He squints. “Or ma’am. Listen,” he pulls out his badge and brandishes it at the driver. “You have to take me uptown ASAP. It’s an emergency.”

The driver stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Where’s your speeder?”

Luke gives them an incredulous look. “Really? Come on, can’t you just help me?”

“I have a route,” they say, resolute. 

“Okay,” Luke says, he can feel the edges of hysteria creeping into his voice. “How long until you head uptown?”

The driver gestures to the schedule by the door. Luke stares at it for a moment, not really reading it. Three more stops before the shuttle loops back uptown, the ETA is thirty minutes, but Luke knows Jeroh traffic, so it’s more like forty-five. He worries his bottom lip, thinking. That’s probably plenty of time for Han to do something stupid, or to hurt himself trying to remove the tracker. Imagining Huberta’s face if he has to tell her he lost their asset because he’s an idiot makes his throat close up and his heart do a funny little dance in his chest.

“What if I commandeered your vehicle and officially filled out the forms?”

“I have a route,” the driver says. “You’d be disrupting people’s day.”

“I’m having a disrupted day,” Luke mutters, dropping into the seat right behind the driver. His leg bounces erratically and R2-D2 hums by his calf, waiting loyally. The ride is like any other shuttle ride, except every stop makes Luke’s blood pressure spike and his throat lose all moisture. 

It’s probably not healthy. 

He climbs out at his stop, ignoring the driver’s call of “Good luck!” and staring at the set of buildings he’s immediately presented with. This was as far as his good idea went, unfortunately. He doesn’t know if he should search the buildings on his own or if he should just yell Han’s name like he’s looking for a lost dog. He sees a couple across the street weeding in the meagre patch of land that must serve as an apartment garden or something. Luke saunters over, attempting casualty.

“Hey,” he says. The guy looks up first, his skin is blue and he's got little tusks jutting out from his jaw and a goatee. He reaches up to shade his eyes from the sun. “Hello. Have you seen a guy about,” Luke raises his hand above his head, “this tall? Brown eyes, scruffy-looking, shady as fuck?”

The woman eyes him suspiciously. “Like a homeless criminal?”

Luke grins. “Yeah, that’s him.”

She nods to the sidewalk and points across the street to a building that’s crumbling. The brown bricks are graffitied, and the panels of the boarded windows are painted red. It’s halfway down the street and it looks even older and more decrepit than the rest of the neighborhood.

“He went in there,” the man says. “Well, ‘round behind, but it’s foreclosed.”

“Not sure with what he could want from there, but there are some kids that like the basketball court,” she says. “He had a bag.”

“Oh,” Luke says, distracted, still looking at the building. “Good. He kept it. Thank you,” he starts to cross the street, R2-D2 zooming ahead.

“I hope your friend is all right,” she calls after him. Luke half-turns and gives her a little wave.

As Luke gets closer, the building seems to get older. There are leafy green plants poking out of the cracks between the old bricks, mortar crumbling away into dust. The panel boards covering the windows are rotting away, the paint chipped and peeling. The concrete steps leading to the black door are cracked and covered in a carpet of moss. The glass of the door is grimy and spider-web cracked out from the corner to the middle.

“Stay here, Artoo,” Luke says to the little robot. It seems to look at him, a pause. He pats its head affectionately and makes his way through the little alley between the two buildings.

In the back, there’s a little area cordoned off by a chain link fence, flanked on each end by tall metal poles that have backboards but no hoops. It’s deserted, and more of the plants on the building grow along the fence, tangling in the wire. Luke moves closer, wary of the shadows at the edges surrounding the court. He sees a flash of the brown jacket that Han has always worn, even a year ago. Luke hops the fence and sees Han on his knees half curled into a ball, duffel bag forgotten a few feet away.

Luke picks up the bag first, passing Han, then he doubles back, crouches down and looks for any injuries. Han’s hand is pressed against his neck, where the tracker is.

“I told you,” he says softly. Han grunts in response, opening his eyes. They’re a little hazy with pain, but focus on Luke for a second. Luke offers him a smile.

He peels Han’s fingers from his neck and looks. The skin around where the trackers is embedded is pink and shiny, puckered a bit and hot to the touch. Luke presses his cool fingers against it and Han sighs. He pulls away and unzips the duffel and finds the medicine he’d tossed in earlier. It’s a little vial that holds vile-tasting blue liquid, but it will take the worst of the pain from Han.

He tilts Han’s head up, presses it to his lips and tilts. Han yanks away a moment later, hacking. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, managing to glare at Luke.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Luke stares at him, unrepentant. “You’re a criminal.”

Han laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he sits up, kicking his legs out in front of him and laying down on the concrete. Luke just looks at him for a second, then he does the same, careful to keep distance between them. 

The sky is still clear and a breeze makes its way through the streets, touseling Luke’s hair. The concrete is warm from hours exposed to the sun, but the light has shifted and the building’s shadow stretches long over the basketball court. Luke closes his eyes and drifts, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that’s telling him to go back to the office. Han gets to call the shots here, Luke did kinda just get him electrocuted.

“Why this building?” Luke asks after a minute, not really expecting an answer. Han shifts beside him, Luke can hear the whisper of his jeans.

“Thought I should come by,” Han says, voice slow and thick with sleep. “You know. See the old family digs, point out what’s changed about the ‘hood.” 

“You lived here?”

“Sometimes,” Han says, and something about his tone makes Luke open his eyes and look at him. Han’s sitting up, knees pulled to his chest, staring at his hands. He’s picking at the beds of his nails, making them bleed, and it draws all of Luke’s attention.

Luke sits up, head heavy, and rolls to his knees. 

“Knock it off,” he tells him, trapping one of Han’s hands between his own palms. He still smells like bleach, like the scent has permeated his skin, embedded into the marrow of his bones. “Did they hurt you?” the question is idle, Luke still fixated on examining the exposed knuckles, but he doesn’t think he’d be surprised if it were true.

“Sometimes,” Han says softly. 

Luke stiffens slightly, raises his eyes to meet Han’s, but Han is looking at where Luke’s touching him, staring at where Luke’s unmarred flesh touches Han’s chemical burn. He can feel the tension in the air, electrical and sharp. He remembers this, once, before he could land Han’s arrest. A moment, in the half-dark of a stuffy room crammed with forgeries and goods banned from Imperialist airspace. 

Han had slipped through Luke’s fingers then, but Luke won’t lose him now.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says, pulling away and struggling to his feet. He’s too young to have creaky joints but alas, his knees protest like he’s sixty. 

Han looks up at him, and that’s all he does.

[ - - - ]

When Luke gets back thirty minutes later, R2-D2 on his heels, carrying a bag of greasy takeout and a coffee, Han’s asleep in the sun, head pillowed on the duffel bag. He’s taken off his jacket and tossed it over his knees, arms crossed over his stomach. He shifts his neck to peer up at Luke, blinking lazily.

“I smell coffee,” and Han sits up, reaching for the cup. Luke steps back and lifts the cup up and away, grinning. 

Han frowns. “I’m taller than you.”

“Not right now, you’re not,” Luke takes a sip. He hates coffee, but forces the mouthful down anyways. 

Han climbs to his feet and uses his three inches to tower over Luke, smiling down at him. Luke lets his arms hang by his sides, holding the coffee by the lid like Beru always told him not to, tilting his head up so he can look Han in the eye. He levels an unimpressed stare at Han, and Han’s grin merely grows. He leans closer to Luke, noses brushing, breath mingling.

He’s got flecks of gold in his eyes, pupils dark and unfathomable. His lips are chapped and dry at the corners, but his smile is straight and white, and its got Luke like a flytrap. He’s not sure what he’s expecting or what he’s waiting for, just that he’s holding his breath. It’s dangerous, Han’s a criminal and Luke’s a cop. Luke parts his lips, maybe to say something, maybe to break the tension, but Han steps away.

He turns on his heel and Luke snaps out of his haze. His hand is empty and Luke can see coffee is dripping down Han’s chin throws a shit-eating grin at Luke over his shoulder. 

“Oh, you are disgusting.”

Han shrugs, crouching down to gather up his duffel and coat. R2-D2 beeps and bumps against Han’s calf when he straightens.

“Let’s go see what these unlock,” Han dangles the keys in front of Luke’s face. “And I think this is yours.”

“You took my wallet?” Luke demands, snatching it back. He scowls and Han just shrugs. “Whatever. You won’t run off again?”

Han taps his neck. “I think I can learn.”

Luke snorts. 

[ - - - ]

When Luke picks up Han the next morning, he’s holding two cups of coffee, waiting on the sidewalk expectantly, earbuds a bright, glowing blue, shining on the sides of his head like oversized earrings. He slides into the passenger seat of Luke’s speeder and sticks the coffees into the cupholders. The earbuds lose their glow the second they’re out of his ears, turning into a sensible silver that Luke barely glimpses as they’re tucked into Han’s jeans. He’s in the grey wool sweater Luke had picked out, leather jacket, dumb gloves and yellow beanie. He looks like a bank robber. His stubble’s back, too, so are the dark circles. 

The sun isn’t even up, the mandated street lamps are still glowing and the streets are entirely deserted. It’s deathly cold, the chill sneaking, harsh, into Luke’s speeder until Han slams the door shut. Han looks vaguely chipper, peering out into the mist around them with bright curiosity. The tracker is on Han’s right hand side, so Luke can’t actually see it, but he can imagine. The sliver of the inset circle glowing bright green.

“Are you going to dress like a homeless man every day?” Luke’s mouth says without direction from his brain. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Han says flippantly. “Hey, where’s the droid?”

“I think you need to wear something other than that at the office.”

“I’m only a consultant,” Han says, waving his hand. “I don’t really need to impress. And I asked you a question.”

Luke backtracks through the conversation. “Oh, Artoo? He’s with my roommate.”

“You have a roommate? What, you don’t make enough money to afford a place on your own?”

Luke shrugs, pulling away from the curb. The truth is, even before he was born, Luke’s never been alone. Twins grow up with heartbeats in tune, bodies that were made together, breathing in tandem. It’s an intimacy that they’ve never figured out how to weave into their lives but it’s burned into their flesh. Luke’s heart beats _ hi _ and _ i know you _ and Leia’s heart responds _ hello _ and _ yes, you do. _Mom might’ve had to raise them separately, him on Tatooine and Leia on Alderaan, but summers were for both of them on Uncle Obi-wan’s ranch. He cannot pinpoint a time in his life where he was totally left to fend for himself and he doesn’t want to.

Owen and Beru are heavy memories in his brain. He doesn’t visit them nearly as much as he should, for that he feels guilty, but Luke’s always wanted to separate himself from the Amidala name -- it’s not their fault they’re such clear ties to that part of him. It’s not their fault they’re such strong reminders. 

Codependency is dangerous, that’s true. But Luke’s family line is a slippery slope and he doesn’t want to face his legacy alone. 

“That apartment you gave me is a shithole, by the way,” Han says when he realizes Luke’s not going to talk.

“As opposed to what,” Luke says cheerfully, “an eight by six in Joyville on the smallest planet in the Alliance?”

“Ha ha,” Han says tonelessly. 

And then, ten minutes later, “You sent me boxes of my unused aliases.”

Luke looks at him sharply. “I did not.”

Han grins. “Yeah, I know. You seen Chewie lately?”

“Oh,” Luke says, turning back to the road and grinding his teeth. “Fuck you.”

“He’s great, isn’t he?”

Luke ignores him for the rest of the way. It seems to make Han radiate glee, however, making him more insufferable than sixteen seconds ago. Chewbacca isn’t on the Most Wanted list, not by a long shot, but when Luke had arrested Han he’d been dismayed to learn that his right hand man had slipped away. The thing is, when you bring down someone, you expect to capture _ everything. _Only Chewbacca had gotten away. It’s a bit of a sore point for Luke.

Andor’s head shoots up the second they step foot into the fishbowl. He’s standing over Erso’s desk, scanning through several papers at once, armed with a highlighter and a frown. Erso’s lounging in Andor’s chair, calmly a reading report and sucking on a lollipop. All the lights are off except their desk lamps and Huberta’s office on the second floor, casting an eerie glow onto the detectives. Luke, for a horrible second, is transported back to Mos Eisley and the half-dark of the cantena. Andor looks between them for a moment, eyes hazy with confusion and sleeplessness. He puts down his papers and straightens, and Erso kicks her desk to spin the chair to face them.

“Been here all night?” Luke asks. Han nudges him in the side sharply and jerks his head like, _ be friendly _when Luke turns to scowl at him, rubbing his arm. He can’t help that he’s standoffish. There’s not a lot of people on Tatooine to practice social skills on. 

“It’s that Tarkin copycat again,” Erso says. “He’s escalated.”

Luke pulls a face in sympathy; half-grimace, half-cringe. “When are you heading out?”

“Later today,” Erso sighs. “After Lunch. It’s on Naboo, you know. Who does that on Naboo?”

Luke tilts his head. “I’ve been there. My mom loves that planet.” And it’s not exactly a lie. 

She shakes her head. “It’s a damn shame, you know. Tarkin was an asshole. Who wants to emulate murderous assholes?”

“Uh,” Han says. “Psychopaths? Isn’t your job catching those guys? Aren’t you supposed to be, you know,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands. “Desensitized to that.”

“He was racist, Han,” Luke says gently. “We tend to look down on particularly bigoted killers.”

“Speaking of,” Erso brightens, “Tan’s squad is finally planning a mass arrest for that undercover spice operation they’ve been doing.”

“Oh,” Luke says. “Deserted office. Cool.”

Erso grins, a rare occurance, the sharps of her teeth showing. Her eyes go soft and Andor just looks at her for a moment, warm and aware. Luke’s immune, or he just prefers it when she doesn’t smile because he raises his eyes to the ceiling, moving to his desk. Her smiles have never seemed special to him, even in their rarity, but Leia is obsessed. 

“What does that have to do with racist?” Han asks as they sit down. Luke looks at him. 

“Drug mafias and bigoted murders are on the top of the unofficial ‘to stop’ list,” he pulls up his hologram, scrolling through the things he missed yesterday. He pulls his holopad out of his desk drawer, almost destabilizing a tower of unfiled reports. There are five pink sticky-notes on the top of the holopad, all of them in his own hand, reminding him to pick up Han from Joyville. Luke unsticks them and tosses the tiny pile onto a corner of his desk. 

“Then why’d you waste three years on me?”

Luke doesn’t hear the question for a moment, absorbed in swiping through photos of a crime scene Huberta had forwarded him. It’s a fairly cut and dry burglary, only the thief had left an interesting message for the cops. The house was entirely stripped bare. Nothing left behind, not even light fixtures. It’s fascinating, and someone has spray-painted the Imperialist logo onto the wall of the master bedroom. 

“Hmm?” Luke looks up. “On you? Well, you were, like, ninety-five percent of the reason we couldn’t track Imperialist exports anymore, which in turn jammed our whole process of catching spice dealers and cracking down on other, various crimes your old job used to participate in.”

Han makes a face. “I didn’t work _ just _for them, you know. This isn’t the first time I’ve cut a deal with the Alliance.”

Luke’s brain halts all function. “What?”

Han opens his mouth, but the sound of the elevator doors whoosing open stops him. 

“Skywalker,” Huberta’s voice cuts through the white noise of his brain. Her voice is sharp, irritated, unfriendly. “Get up here.”

Luke stands, follows her into the elevator and stands awkwardly. He tucks his hands behind his back and catches a glimpse of Han’s wide-eyed confusion just before the doors slide shut. Huberta is in her Alliance uniform, which means she’s going to leave for the head office on Coruscant at any moment. The air is thick, and the thickness doesn’t abate when the doors slide open.

They step out into the hall, but Huberta pauses, loiters. Luke glances over the railing at Han. He’s staring up at the second floor with an inscrutable expression. 

“That burglary. Did you look at the photos?”

“How many times has Han helped us before?” Luke blurts. The sheer look of incredulity that Huberta fixes with him makes him pause, feel like an idiot. 

“Excuse me?”

“He said… what haven’t you told me?”

She shakes her head, loose waves pulled into a half-bun at the back of her head. She’s going sheer white at the temples, eyes getting lighter in her age, more murky. Her skin is unmarred except for smile lines and crow’s feet at the corners. She stands an inch shorter than him, but usually she towers. Today, in this moment, every detail of her reminds him of his mother. Right now, he towers over her.

“Skywalker,” she starts, voice soft and placating. “He’s still a criminal.”

Luke sighs. Rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he can see Han in the fishbowl, tapping his stolen pencil against the desk, watching Luke right back. He seems infinitely tinier than Luke, like an ant. Not an ant. Not something Luke could crush. He just seems small. “Whatever. I looked at the photos. I’ll take it up.”

Huberta nods, once, then disappears down the hall into her office. Luke stands there for a moment, in the half-dark of five a.m.

“I’ll send you the rest of the reports!” Huberta calls out to him, her office door still open.

“Thanks,” Luke says. He’s not sure if she hears him.

[ - - - ]

Erso falls asleep on her desk thirty minutes after Tan’s squad leaves. It’s left the office half-empty and quiet. They’re purposely being as quiet as possible: beating the phones before they ring, whispering in each other’s ears, folding paper airplanes with notes scribbled in them. Wait. Luke looks up and catches Han on his final crease. 

“What,” Luke demands flatly, “the fuck are you doing?”

Han jerks his head over Luke’s shoulder. “Trying to see how many I can land without either of them noticing.”

Luke cranes his neck around and sees Andor, staring very hard at one single folder, blinking slowly every once in awhile, Erso sound asleep beside him. Her head is pillowed on her arms, his jacket is tossed over her shoulders. He looks half-asleep himself, eyes bloodshot and face scruffy from not shaving. There’s a pile of neatly landed planes on their desks, a few have fallen short, landed on the ground surrounding them, two by Luke’s feet. 

“How long have you been doing that?” Luke asks, surprised by the sheer amount of planes. He furrows his brow and turns back to look at Han. “Where are you getting the paper?”

“Oh, you know,” Han answers vaguely. “No one gives me something to do, won’t talk to me. You’re zoned out.”

“I’m working.” 

“You’ve been staring at the same thing for two whole minutes.”

“I’m absorbing details,” Luke says. Han raises his eyebrow at Luke disbelievingly. “Okay, whatever. You know anything about this?” he slides the crime scene photos across the desk to Han. “Robbery, you know, of a private home, seems cut and dry. _ But _, they took everything. Not even the lightbulbs were left. Wires were ripped out of walls, panels burned away. And that,” Luke says and Han swipes to the picture of the master bedroom. “They left that.”

“Hm, Imperialist art? Weird. Never asked us to do anything that petty.”

“If it’s important, that’s the Palpatine estate,” Luke leans over. “Ever rob him?”

“Cased the joint,” Han says, swipes back through the photos a second time. “I turned it down. Knew I’d need more than two folks to get anything over four million credits off of him.”

“Oh,” Luke says. “Usually senators live flashy lives.”

The corner of Han’s mouth lifts. “You’d be surprised.”

Luke doesn’t think he would. 

[ - - - ]

Noon arrives but Luke doesn’t notice until Han yanks the back of his chair, making him startle and yelp. Behind him, Andor jerks his head up and bangs his legs against the underside of the desk, jostling Erso. 

“I’m hungry,” Han whines, and Luke has a feeling this isn’t the first time he’s said it. 

“What time is it?” Andor asks, voice slower than usual. 

“You don’t have to go anywhere with me,” Luke says. “We’re not actually chained together,” Luke lifts his holopad. “Go get lunch by yourself.”

“I don’t know the good restaurants.”

“It’s noon,” Luke tells Andor, kicking his chair around to face him. “Tell Erso I said good luck,” Luke stands and Han grins, triumphant, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

Andor stands and stretches, cracking the joints in his back. Distractedly, Luke watches the curve of his body, half of his attention on the stirring pile of Jyn Erso. She lifts her head, blinking her eyes blearily. Distantly, Luke hears the telltale _ click-click _of high heels and the sharp whirr of R2-D2’s engine. He’s staring at the line of Andor’s neck as he cracks it when Leia walks into the office.

“Luke!” Leia barks, sharp. Luke whips around and sees that she’s carrying a plastic takeout bag. She steps close, kisses him on the cheek and takes a look at Erso all in one move.

“What are you doing here?” Luke hisses in her ear.

“Relax,” she steps back. Smiles beatifically. “I brought lunch for you and your new partner.”

“Leia,” Luke starts, low in his throat. 

“Relax,” Leia says again and sticks her hand out to Han. “I’m Leia Organa,” she says, “Luke’s sister.”

“We were going out to eat, anyway,” Han says, eyes sliding to Luke nervously. He keeps his hands tucked away. Leia’s smile vanishes and her hand drops to her side. She sets the takeout on Luke’s desk, right on three open files and Luke closes his eyes, sighs out, exhausted. 

“Uh,” Erso says, Luke opens his eyes. She’s smiling uncertainly at Leia, Andor glaring at them impatiently from the door. “Hi, Leia.”

“Hi,” Leia says back, voice cold. Luke rolls his eyes.

They watch Erso hustle out the door. Leia turns back to Luke. 

“I saw you staring at him,” Leia says, not quietly.

“Okay,” Luke grabs the takeout and Han’s elbow, pushing him out the door too. “Bye, Leia.”

R2-D2 whistles after them.

“What was that about?” Han asks when they’re in the speeder.

“Nothing,” Luke says. “We have to interview Palpatine later, you up for that?”

“Yeah,” Han says, mildly, relaxing against the seat, pulling the takeout into his lap. “Sure.”

[ - - - ]

“Artoo’s not my droid,” Luke says. “Threepio is, but he doesn’t leave the house often. I started rebuilding him when I was fifteen, then the Alliance recruited me.” Luke leans back against the fence, balling up his greasy wrapper and tossing it, half-heartedly, into the takeout bag. “I never finished.” 

Han grunts, takes a messy bite of his own. “That’s shit.”

“Yeah, whatever. I never finished a lot of things.”

Han doesn’t say anything, but Luke doesn’t need him too. He has a feeling Han understands.

[ - - - ]

It’s cold and windy Thursday morning when Luke picks Han up. The coffee isn’t hot this time, it’s iced, and Luke drinks all of it the same he did yesterday, hating every moment of it. Han makes a small noise when they pass the White Collar building and loop back through the intersection.

“What,” Luke says as they’re boarding the _ Falcon. _ “Did you think we’d ask a senator to fly out to _ Anaxes _for an interview?”

“The planet isn’t a total shithole,” Han protests.

“No,” Luke agrees. “That’s just the weather.”

He slides out of the speeder and heads down the hall to the cockpit. He doesn’t know if Han follows him, the holopad is tucked in his jacket, a warm thrum against his ribs. He sits in the captain’s chair and starts up the ship. It lights up, coming to life with a whine. 

The sense memory floods his body, making the muscles in his whole body coil tight, his jaw clenching, teeth grinding together, harsh. Back before Luke had ever understood the reasons he lived on Tatooine and Leia on Alderaan, Uncle Obi-wan used to let him sit in one of the old rusted-out ships in the barn. He’d play in there for hours, away from the hot summer sun and away from Leia, who just wanted to sword fight. 

Only for a few weeks out of the summer would mom come and stay with them, the only time all three of them were in one place throughout their whole lives. They’d pretend to be a real family and Obi-wan would tell them stories of their father, while their mother stayed tucked up in the corner of the family room, staring out the window and smiling wistfully. It always rained during the summers in Tatooine, sudden, days-long floods for a whole month. 

Once, when his hand had hovered over the throttle, the ship had lit up for a split-second, blinking and bright. It had sent Luke’s pulse racing in his throat, not because he was afraid of getting in trouble, but because of the power he could feel singing in his veins. His fingers had tingled, made his whole body feel light. 

“You okay?” Han says from the doorway of the cockpit.

Luke jerks. He knows his eyes are bright. He steps away from the seat, clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Fine. I just hate flying.”

He crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the doorway.

“You hate flying?”

“Will Palpatine recognize you?” Luke asks, settling in the co-pilot seat. 

Han laughs, moves and drops into the pilot’s seat. He runs his hands over the _ Falcon’_s buttons and looks over at Luke. “You’re very transparent, you know,” his half-grin is warm. “But no. He shouldn’t, it was just a case job. Besides, I never even met anyone higher up than, I don’t know, a snowtrooper, over there.”

Luke’s lip curls instinctively at the slang. Why can’t people just say drug runners? They’re stupid kids, picked up young and brainwashed into the Imperialists. They call each other brother and distribute drugs in teams. Luke would feel bad for any number of them if they weren’t criminals. Well. He shouldn’t feel bad for criminals. 

Han pulls the _ Falcon _up into the sky, hurtling out of the atmosphere, and setting a direct course for Coruscant. He flips on radio chatter, keeps it on the lowest volume setting even though the hum of the static keeps Luke on edge. The cockpit is relatively large, enough to fit four or five people, not like the Alliance sanctioned ships Luke’s been forced to borrow on occasion. 

“Been in contact with Chewbacca?” Luke asks casually, pulling out his holopad and looking at the reports again. He shifts around, pulls off his jacket, tosses it over the back of his seat. “He’s still a wanted suspect, you know.”

“No,” Han sighs. “Not since I found the boxes in that apartment.”

“That was supposed to be classified information,” Luke says lightly. 

“What?” Han snaps. “Me or the apartment?”

“That I got the apartment for you,” Luke raises his eyes to stare at Han’s profile, cataloguing his reaction. Han’s mouth is pressed in a flat line and he doesn’t respond. Luke dismisses it, goes back to the report.

He knows it backwards by now, but Luke’s always been obsessive.

[ - - - ]

Coruscant is glittery and shiny in the sun as they pull up to the airstrip. The sun is high in the sky and Luke thinks, vaguely, that he will never quite be used to just one sun. The spire of the shortest building is much, much taller than anything any architect could’ve ever dreamt of on Anaxes. They coast into the hangar, and Luke only sees a glimpse of the city at ground-level. It seems beautiful and perfect, shiny and bright. Luke’s not convinced.

“Wanna get food first?” Han asks. 

“Uh,” Luke glances down at his watch. “Sure. It’s not scheduled officially or anything. We’re the cops.”

Han chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, darkly. “I know.”

“Okay,” Luke says. He grabs his jacket and ducks out of the cockpit in record time. 

Luke may have a hard time understanding other people, but avoiding awkward moments? He’s a master. He has to be, being related to Leia Organa, frequent causer of supremely awkward situations. Luke tucks his holopad into his jacket, shrugging it back on. He heads back to the hold, unlocking the speeder with a click from his keys. 

“So,” Han says, sliding in to the passenger seat as the hold door lowers. “Why was the droid with you when you picked me up?”

“Moral support, you know,” Luke says vaguely. 

“Uh huh,” Han nods, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Sure it wasn’t so you could record my speech patterns?”

“We already have those on file,” Luke reminds him. 

“_For Leia_, I mean.”

Luke slams on the breaks halfway out the hangar door. The air traffic guy waves his flashlight at him, beckoning them forward. Luke ignores him, shutting off the speeder and twisting his body to face Han head-on. He can feel it, rising up in his chest, an intense protectiveness, a sharp thorny _ thing _that makes him want to leave Han on the side of a road. Leia had always been the talker, she was the older twin, after all, but Luke had to protect her. 

That was what Obi-wan had drilled into him. Protect Leia. Protect her over everything until it had become a rhythm that he could breathe to, a mantra so familiar it was burned to his tongue like a brand. In return, Obi-wan was meant to protect Luke. Sometimes life’s funny like that.

“Listen,” Luke says, almost startled by how deadly calm his voice is. “You can call me whatever you want. Space-slug, Rancor whore, I’ve heard it all. Don’t bring Leia into this. _ Ever _. She’s my sister, I protect her over anything.”

Luke starts the speeder again, leaving the hangar and following the traffic through the bustle of the city. 

“Besides,” he says. “She wouldn’t be into you.”

[ - - - ]

Han’s still eating his bunn, tearing off pieces and stuffing it into his mouth, when they pull up to the Office of the Republic. The streets look like they’re made of gold, and the building is made of titanium, strong and scrubbed to a shine. Luke wonders how much in rains in Coruscant, subsequently wonders how expensive it is to maintain it. 

He remembers the flash-monsoons on Tatooine from when he was a kid. Sharp, stinging rains that rusted all equipment overnight. The rain never lasted, rivers never formed on Tatooine. The dry season was too long and too harsh, but moisture farmers always waited for it, called it harvest. Luke always spent half his life in the rain. He didn’t see green until he turned nineteen and ended up on Yavin, training for the Alliance. 

“I saw how she looked at that girl,” Han says around his food. Luke makes a face.

“Swallow, please,” Luke says.

Han looks delighted, opens his mouth to respond, but Luke beats him to it.

“Keep your dirty jokes to yourself.”

Luke looks back to the daunting site of the senators’ building, tracing the outlines of all four spires. He remembers being here, only once, when he was nineteen. Part of training. He hadn’t been prepared for how awkward it is to see your mother on a field trip with mates you’re hoping never find out a thing about your life. He hadn’t asked to be pulled out of the academy early. 

He knows what they’d all say if they knew. He hadn’t really worked hard enough, or been smart enough, or done anything for himself. His whole life his family had strapped him to some legacy, some title. Something his father had left unfinished, his blood-borne right to live on through. Skywalker. Cold-case. The words written in the marrow down to his very soul. Just once he didn’t want to be the product of someone else’s making. Obi-wan always said that the day in the barn was his destiny. He’s not good at destiny.

He hasn’t seen her since. 

“Are we going in, or…?” Han asks, stuffing the rest of the bunn in his mouth.

“Was just waiting for you,” Luke says lightly, clearing his throat.

The foyer of the building is stunning. Giant marble pillars with gold inlay designs snake high into the curved roof. The floors are tiled and freshly waxed, so shiny they almost perfectly reflect the murals that line the roof and the sides of the huge area. It seems big enough to be a ballroom, maybe twice that. There are dozens of aliens and humans alike wandering the building, alternately striding with purpose or snapping pictures of the art. 

Luke makes his way up to the giant gold painted reception desk where a single Chiss is sitting, typing on a holoscreen and talking into her headset, sounding vaguely annoyed about the whole endeavor. 

“Yes, Mr. Krennic,” she’s saying when Luke stops in front of her. “Senator Palpatine--”

“Excuse me,” Luke says. She looks up and offers him a blank smile and holds up a finger, imploring him to wait.

“Yes, I will let him know. Yes, yes I… okay. Thank you,” she takes off the earpiece and turns her full attention to Luke. “Can I help you?”

Luke pulls his wallet from his pocket, shows her his detective badge. “We’re here to see Senator Palpatine.”

“Oh,” her face goes slack with surprise for a moment. “Of course, sure. I can give you visitor passes and directions to his office, but I can’t tell you anything about his personal schedule. You’ll have to check with his personal receptionist.”

“Of course,” Han says smoothly, flashing her his teeth. He reaches over and picks up a gold pen, twirling it in his hand. Luke rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be just a moment,” the Chiss says, a dark blue blush staining her cheeks as Han leans over the desk to ask her questions about her job. Luke turns, leans his shoulders against the tall desk to stare over the crowd.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, runs his fingers over his keys, rubs his thumb along the seam of the White Collar keycard. The background noise of the fishbowl is drastically different from the noise here, the sound of ringing phones and the scratch of pens is absent, left only the sound of footsteps and voices. This place feels like White Collar stripped bare and Luke doesn’t like it. 

“Here,” Han says. He steps close to Luke before Luke can react and pins the visitor badge to the lapel of Luke’s jacket. Han doesn’t pull away instantly, brushes his hand slowly over the seam of Luke’s jacket.

Something lights up in Luke’s brain and his hand shoots up, stills Han’s wrist. He can still feel the electronic pulse of the holopad against his ribs, and he knows that Han doesn’t know that that’s what controls his tracker, but something warns him about Han being this close to him. Luke’s well aware of Han’s tendency to steal things, is made warrier by the fact he feels like he’s slipping a bit, like he’s distracted.

“Knock it off,” Luke tells him, pushes him away. Luke straightens from the desk and beelines for the elevators on the far side of the room. Han trails him, sticking his own visitor’s badge to the hem of his sweater. 

“Thirteenth floor,” Han tells the person closest to the panel when they slip inside one of the elevators. 

Luke just sticks his hands in his pockets.

The Ruusanian sitting behind the desk just outside Palpatine’s office scowls at them when they approach. 

“Hello,” Luke says pleasantly.

“Do you have an appointment?” the Ruusanian asks archly. Luke’s smile vanishes. He pulls out his badge, dangles it in front of the Ruusanian’s face.

“I don’t think Palpatine will mind if we don’t,” Luke snaps it shut, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “We just have a few questions for him.”

He scowls harder, points them to a row of chairs five feet away from his desk.

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks,” Han says, stepping in, flashing his smile. The Ruusanian rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift anyway. Luke and Han go stand by the chairs. “Seriously?” Han hisses when they’re out of earshot. “Were you raised like a hermit?”

“I grew up on Tatooine,” Luke says dryly.

Han inhales through his teeth. “Man. Sucks. But really, would it kill you to smile?”

Luke bares his teeth. Han takes an alarmed step back.

“Okay, you know what. Maybe don’t do that.”

“Senator Palpatine will see you,” the receptionist calls and Luke offers him the best smile he can manage, which is probably closer to a grimace than anything. Whatever.

[ - - - ]

“I’ve already given my statement to the sector corps,” Palpatine says mildly from behind his desk. He’s wearing blue and silver inlay robes that puff out at the sleeves. His eyes are black, empty and fathomless. He steeples his fingers and looks at them, flat eyes calculating, assessing them. Han is sitting in one of the chairs, ankle crossed over his knee, hands tucked into his armpits, Luke remains standing, leaning over Palpatine’s desk. It’s messy, which is something Luke likes about the man.

“Yes, I know, but that art they found in your room? It’s official Alliance business,” Luke says.

“Oooh, sounds exciting,” Palpatine smiles, and the shadows the light toss onto his face almost make it appear threatening.

“It isn’t,” Han says. Luke shoots him a look.

“If we could just review your statement…”

“Why, yes, of course. Shall we begin now?”

Luke pulls his holopad out from his jacket and pulls up the files. “So this happened on…”

“Day one-hundred twenty, just an hour - standard time - after I left for a meeting on Yavin.”

“And can you tell us what you were doing on Yavin?”

“Overseeing a graduation ceremony.”

Palpatine answers flawlessly, monotonously, almost like he’s written it down and committed it to memory. Luke supposes that’s fair, as all Palpatine really does is walk them through how he spent that day. Luke zones out halfway through, stares mostly at the wall behind Palpatine’s head. Han seems shut down, dead silent and fidgeting quietly in the chair. 

“And did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Before I left or after I got home?”

Luke resists the urge to roll his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Before I left… well, there were different gardners than usual.”

“Great! We’ll set you up with the sector corp sketch artist,” Luke sticks his holopad in his jacket and dives for the door. Han’s behind him in a flurry of movement.

“Oh, God, I miss Joyville torture,” Han says as soon as they make the elevator. Luke can’t help it, he laughs, one sharp loud bark into the echo of the elevator and when he stops, looks at Han, he’s got the goofiest grin on his face. “Oh, jeez,” Han says. “He laughs! He knows how!”

Luke punches him in the arm. 

[ - - - ]

Luke kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, tosses his keys in the vague direction of the entryway table and shuffles further into the apartment, armful of case files weighing him down. He can hear R2-D2 beep soundly in the next room and C3PO’s stilted reply. The kitchen is quiet, so that means either Leia isn’t home yet or she’s planning on murdering Luke.

The light flips on and Luke freezes.

“Luke,” Leia says. She sounds deadly pissed. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Uh,” Luke says, which is a good start. Detectives think on their feet. 

He hadn’t come home til very, very late last night in order to avoid this exact situation. He hates that she knows him so well. 

“What’s going on at work?”

“I’m kind of swamped,” Luke says, shrugging his pile of folders. “So… talk later?”

“No. No talk later.”

He starts edging toward his bedroom. The dining table is usually his paperwork domain, Leia and him eat in the living room in front of the T.V. but she’s claimed it, sitting there with nail polish and a wicked file. His bedroom is a desperate move, but there’s a lock on the door and at least three feet of clean hardwood floor space for him to work with. 

“Listen, Leia,” he starts, turns his back on her, only a few half-jogged steps away from safety. This conversation will be excruciating, and he’s planning on being very not present when it happens.

He hears the scrape of her chair as she stands. Leia says, boldly, “What do you think mom would say if she knew she raised two gay kids?” and Luke freezes.

“She’d say ‘wow what’re the odds?’?” he turns to give Leia a smile, but she’s flat out glaring at him. 

He sighs, drops his paperwork onto the floor outside his bedroom door and drops into the chair across from her. 

“It’s time we talked, Luke,” Leia says, sitting back down, brandishing her wicked nail file.

“We talk everyday, what are you talking about,” Luke mutters under his breath.

[ - - - ]

A week goes by, then two weeks. Every day Luke picks Han up in front of his building and accepts a disgusting new coffee that Han seems to pick at random. He schedules Palpatine with a sketch artist and checks his email every morning for the drawing. Nothing else happens. He shows Han how to do the paperwork for solved cases, so the piles on his desk have been halved and he’s tucked two of Han’s paper airplanes into the drawer of his desk, unfolded the rest to find important paperwork that should’ve never fallen into Han’s greasy fingers.

“Any progress on the Palpatine case?”

“It’s a robbery, Chief,” Luke says without looking up. “Sometimes they just get away.” he looks up at her decidedly unimpressed expression and schools his own into something bland and neutral. 

“The federation is concerned. Palpatine is a high profile individual.”

“Yep,” Luke agrees. She stares at him for a minute and he stares back. Huberta breaks first, offers him a scowl, then turns away to harass Erso and Andor about their Tarkin copycat. 

Han isn’t at his desk, Luke wonders how long ago he should’ve noticed that and how long ago he should’ve done something about it. He thinks about pulling up Han’s location on his holopad, then decides that it’s fine. Han hasn’t tried to run since the first day. Luke would know, he watches Han’s tracker blip obsessively at night when he can’t sleep, its green glow has become a permanent image etched into his brain, a constant blip on the backs of his eyelids.

Han comes back from the water cooler as the sunlight peaks and starts to stream down into the fishbowl in earnest. Luke isn’t doing much, just doodling in the margins of a useless double-print, scrolling through flagged emails. Han leans over his shoulder, stares at one of them from an old case, a congratulations Luke never responded to. 

“‘Thank you, Detective Skywalker, for making our little girl happy’?” Han reads. The question in his voice is obvious. Luke ignores him. “What does that mean? Did you give her a rose?”

“I solved her rape and subsequent murder,” Luke says blandly. He puts his pen down and flips a folder over the doodles. He turns his chair so he can look Han in the eyes. “I never met her when she was alive. She was eight.”

“Oh,” Han says, taken aback.

His message box dings with the sketch of the gardeners from Coruscant sector corps. Thankful for the distraction, Luke turns away from Han, expanding the sketch from his holopad to the screen and sees there are two sketches of very familiar faces. He stares at them, momentarily stunned. He stands up, shoving Han a couple steps back with his shoulder, thoughts racing so fast he feels like he might explode. 

“Who’s that?” Han asks, taking a look at the sketches.

“They know you,” Luke whispers, mildly horrified with himself. Then, his voice strengthening, “Come on.”

[ - - - ]

“Not that I don’t love how cryptic you’re being, because I do, really, but what the hell are we doing here?”

“Shut up,” Luke says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants. 

“Kid,” Han starts.

“It’s a lead,” Luke interrupts him. “We’ve got a lead on the Palpatine case.”

“So no more office?” Han asks, sounding ridiculously elated. Luke shoots him a look.

The plot of land in front of that apartment building where Luke had met the gardeners is deserted, save for the flourishing plant life and abundant Ithorian roses. It’s beautiful work, but less so when Luke considers it might have something to do with the Imperialists.

“Hm,” Han says, looking at the roses. “I didn’t know they could grow in this climate.”

Luke jumps the fence around the garden, boots hitting the concrete with a muted thud. Han follows him over, pressed close behind. The building seems deadly quiet, unnaturally still in the afternoon light. 

“Where is everyone?” Han asks. Luke ignores him, striding up to the front steps of the building. 

The door creaks open before Luke’s even touched it, eerily creaking in the silence. No lights flicker on even when Luke steps foot inside, the gloom heavy and oppressive against Luke’s skin. He’s lived in sunlight, any moments without it make Luke’s stomach turn. He can feel it here, something akin to that hurt, the dark pull of dread seeped into the very walls.

“Do you feel that?” Luke asks, pulse loud in his throat. 

“What? God, it’s dark in here.”

Han flips on the flashlight from his lightpod, earbuds still attached to it as he waves it around. The building is completely stripped bare, no wallpaper, no light, nothing. Luke sucks in a sharp breath and looks up. There aren’t even separating floors, just the high echo of a ceiling. 

“They took _ everything_,” Luke says; and he means it in every sense of the word. 

“They left some stuff too,” Han says. He moves further inside, pointing the light to the far side of the ground floor. There, in blood red, the Imperialist insignia is drawn. On the floor, just below that, a tiny silver boxed is placed. Han kneels before it, hovering, uncertain. 

He picks it up and Luke tenses, strides forward and grabs it from him, half certain it's going to blow. Nothing happens and Han just looks at him, expression torn between indignation and something else, something softer. The only light comes from the open door and Han’s flashlight, making the whole place feel unwelcoming. He fiddles with the little box, the edges of his nails catching on the seams of where it must open. 

Then, it does open -- in a flash of blue light. Luke jerks away, closing his eyes tightly. The flash fades into a steady glow and both Han and Luke slowly open their eyes to look at it. It’s a display of one of the solar systems, written in something that Luke doesn’t instantly recognize.

“What the hell?” Han says.

“It’s a map,” Luke says, breathless.

[ - - - ]

When Luke and Han get back to the speeder, Luke shrugs off his jacket and reaches into the backseat to pull on his blaster holster. Han watches him as Luke adjusts the straps to fit around his shoulders, as he slips the blaster in. He taps the edges of his holopad until it shrinks to fit the dip of his palm. He slides it into his pocket, tugs his jacket back on above that.

He starts his speeder, but he doesn’t drive back to White Collar. Han still watches him, casually propped against his window, hand tucked up under his chin. Luke heads out to the hangar, buzzing the airsecurity so they can prep the _ Falcon _ahead of time. 

“Got anything planned for the next week or so?” Luke asks without looking at Han.

“Don’t think so,” Han says. When Luke glances at him he’s smiling, soft and fond.

Han slides out of the speeder first, shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over his shoulder, holding it with one finger as he heads to the cockpit. Luke stays in the hold, shuts off the ceiling lights and opens the map again. He spreads his hands against the hologram and expands it, zooming in to planets, deciphering the words slowly.

He spends maybe twenty minutes on his knees, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, eyes prickling from the blue glow, when Han walks back in.

“I need coordinates,” he says, then he stops short. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the map,” Luke replies, keeping his eyes glued on the Satarch system. He climbs to his feet, shrugging his jacket back on, covering up his holster again. “We have to get into Imperialist airspace.”

“Is that where the map leads?”

“It’s where it ends,” Luke says. “Clearly, we got to this before whoever was meant to get to it. There was probably one at the Palpatine estate. This is probably a lot bigger than anything we’ve done before.”

His bones whisper it under his skin, his family history seared against his flesh: _ legacy. _Luke can feel it under his tongue as surely as he felt the sharp discontent in that building, this is what he’s meant to do. He takes out his holopad and sends a quick summary to Huberta, the tips of his fingers trembling against the keys. 

Han says “Okay,” and disappears back into the _ Falcon _’s cockpit. A moment later the ship starts up, rattling ominously as it exits Anaxes’s atmosphere and starts the jump to hyperspace.

Luke sits back on his heels in the _ Falcon _’s hold, staring at a holographic map that’s centuries outdated, scribbled with a signature Uncle Obi-wan had ever shown him once before. Luke presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. On the backs of his eyelids blue planets and pinpricks of light swirl around. 

(_ Skywalker, _ the bones deep beneath the sand on Tatooine are whispering. Tatooine is always talking to Luke. _ Skywalker. Fulfill the prophecy. _)

[ - - - ]

“We’re getting close,” Han says. He’s leaning against the door to the medbay, looking down at where Luke’s sprawled on one of the cots, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. The idea had been to sleep. Luke can’t sleep. 

“What do you want me to do about that?” Luke asks, fingers tangling with the chain of his dogtags. Han’s attention catches on them the same moment Luke untucks his arm from behind his head and looks at him.

“What’s that?”

Luke looks down at the tags. “Oh, these? They’re field tags. We’re required to wear them so when the Alliance finds our bodies we get the proper funeral service.”

“When?”

“If,” Luke says sharply. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and plants his boots on the metal floor of the _ Falcon _. 

Han hums at the back of his throat. “Yeah. We need a cover story for you. I broke myself out of prison with help from Chewie. You’re here because…”

“Because you’ve got a tracker in your neck,” Luke says flatly. He stands, gets toe-to-toe with Han. The top of Luke’s head reaches Han’s nose so Han has to tilt his head down to look him in the eye from this close. “Look,” he says, sharp irritation in his voice. “I won’t say anything, I’ll just follow you around. Don’t bother to explain. If they question it, shoot them.” 

Luke brushes past Han and heads to the hold, opening the door and grabs an extra holster and blaster from the back. Han doesn’t follow him and Luke is obscenely grateful for the silence. The whole ship beeps twice, a warning, incoming transmission. The lights go red and the ship slows down.

“Hiya,” Han says, broadcasted all over the ship. Luke stays with the speeder, deciding that he wouldn’t be any help.

“Identification?” a gruffer voice sounds. 

“Really?” Han’s voice crackles as the connection fizzles. There’s a beat of silence. “Okay, man. Whatever. Fine. Han Solo, Millenium Falcon, eight-b-two, smuggler-slash-thief.”

There’s a loud beep throughout the ship, like the gates opening up at Joyville and very suddenly Luke feels sick, hands going cold and clammy against the roof of the speeder where Luke flattens his palms, staring at the ground between his feet and breathing hard, attempting to blink away the sudden blurriness in his eyes. It hits him, very hard and very sudden, in only three weeks -- and maybe the three years previous to this -- Luke Skywalker has started to care very badly for Han Solo. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t even have back-up on call and if anyone finds his badge this whole thing could go south very, very quickly. Luke’s endangering himself and -- he has to swallow around the lump in his throat when he thinks it -- his friend. Luke slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out his badge, stares at the Alliance coat of arms, thumb tracing along the ridges of the raised gold. He flips his wallet shut.

Han finds him in the medbay as they’re passing through the walls of the first blockade, and the ship shudders from the engines of the other crafts. Luke clenches his jaw at the noise and turns to Han, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Ready?” Han asks. “We’re docking freighter nine, port three.”

Luke shrugs. “Port three, got it. Your buddies gonna believe your ‘escaped’ story?”

“C’mon,” Han says, grinning. “I’m a con-man, aren’t I?”

Luke rolls his eyes. “You work with White Collar now, I don’t think you’re really allowed to call yourself a criminal anymore.”

“I’m doing it for immunity, baby.”

A warning sounds through the ship again, familiar from before. The ship shudders and rocks slightly as it comes to meet freighter nine. Han reaches out, steadies Luke even though he doesn’t need it. It’s quiet for a moment, then the doors open, the light panel retracts and Luke gets his first look into an Imperialist aircraft. Two curious kids with dark eyes and dark skin stare back at them, dressed in all black underclothes. One of them, the closer one, who’s got skin only a shade lighter than the black he’s wearing, has got a blood orange scarf around his neck. The sharp contrast is beautiful, and Luke can’t really look away.

“‘Ello, Han,” the second one says. “Thought we’d never see your ugly mug around ‘ere again.”

Han shrugs, grinning involuntarily, as he ducks away from Luke and toward the boys. “Looks like you boys are shit out of luck.”

“Tha’s real tragic, innit,” the second one says, stepping back and letting Han jump down into the freighter. 

“Who’s your friend?” The one with the scarf asks, peering into the _ Falcon _at Luke.

Han shoots him a glance. “A friend. Bodyguard. Someone who can keep me from going back to Joyville.”

“Does it really matter, Seren? He’s wif Han,” the second one asks.

“Yeah, Seren. He’s with me.”

“He got a name?” Seren asks, eyes tracking up and down Luke’s body.

“I _ can _speak, you know,” Luke says, stepping forward. “Maybe he’d answer if you asked him.”

From behind the boys, Han raises his eyebrows and smiles. He helps Luke down even though Luke doesn’t need it. The calluses on the tips of Luke’s fingers catch on Han’s belt, and Han’s put Luke down too close, so their chests are nearly touching. For a moment, Luke is transported back to the basketball court on Anaxes, and something’s caught in his throat. Luke steps away swiftly and slides his hands into his pockets.

Han stands there for a moment, just looking at Luke. 

“I’m Jericho, by the way, and that’s Serengeti,” the second snowtrooper interrupts, gesturing between himself and Seren. 

Luke nods in Jericho’s direction, but keeps his eyes locked on Han. 

“If you’ll just come with me,” Jericho says uncertainly when the heaviness in the air doesn’t lift. “We’ll give you a couple assignments.”

“Yeah,” Han says. And then, “Yeah, yeah,” he repeats, following Jericho deeper into the freighter. Luke and Seren start after them automatically, falling into step beside each other.

“Aw, man,” Luke hears Jericho say to Han. “You missed some of the best days out here, why’s it you’re always gone when the cool stuff happens?”

“I love it when you tell me stories,” Han says. Luke hears the smile in his voice.

Han tunes out Jericho’s story and instead starts cataloging the inside of the freighter and the people they pass, which, surprisingly, is not many. Just other stormtroopers, dressed in the standard black uniform, marching past in twos and threes. The walls of the freighter are just like the walls of any other ship, cold and metal and unfeeling. 

In another lifetime, Luke knows these things like he knows how to breathe air, he was bred to be a pilot. He’s already got half of it: sure and steady hands, eyes space-strained and older than the galaxy. But he hasn’t got the fire, that recklessness that fuels a flyguy. He sees it all in Han. 

Up ahead, Jericho and Han turn the corner, and they’re out of sight. Luke’s pace increases, his uneasiness leaking into his muscles, but Serengeti moves smoothly, grabbing Luke’s elbow and slamming him up against the wall in the deserted corridor. Seren presses his face close to Luke. Luke’s pulse speeds in his throat, and he resists the urge to fight back, aware it could compromise both him and Han in a heartbeat.

“You’re real pretty, you know that?” Seren sneers right in Luke’s face, gripping Luke’s chin with his hand, using his body weight to keep Luke from moving away. “Haven’t even seen anybody like you out here.”

Luke resists the urge to spit on him. “Maybe you just haven’t been looking.”

Seren laughs, low. His eyes trail down Luke’s body and he feels exposed, like Seren can see the Alliance issued dog tags through his shirt. He wishes Han were here. 

“I wonder,” Seren says, slowly. “I wonder if-”

“Luke?” Han asks, his shadow coming around the bend. Seren steps away from Luke swiftly and Luke stands up straight, dusts himself off. 

“Here!” he calls, pushing away from Seren and towards Han. 

Han rakes his eyes over Luke, and then over his shoulder at Seren. Luke watches his face change slowly, a dawning look of realization as he glances at Luke and back and Seren, and at Luke again. He opens his mouth, closes it, and his eyes look wounded when he looks at Luke. Seren pushes between them, striding ahead in the corridor, and Luke has no idea what to say.

“Uh,” Luke says. “Small chance I might be compromised."

“We’re leaving,” Han says, striding back toward the hangar, hand shooting out to grab Luke.

Luke jerks away. “We can’t.”

“What do you mean we can’t? We can’t stay if you think you’re in danger, and Luke - this may have escaped your notice, you’re a bit dense - but we’re in the middle of Imperialist controlled space!” Han’s trying to keep his voice down, but it’s a stage whisper at best. “We’re going back.” Luke looks around them, making sure no one’s listening.

“We need to know what they’re planning next.”

“We can’t just walk in there and hand one of them that map. We don’t have an excuse, I don’t think you’re safe here and-”

“We can steal the next map.”

“What?”

Luke steps toward Han, lowering his voice. “Jericho said they’re partying tonight. We can just… steal it.” Luke pauses. Raises his eyebrow at Han. “That _ is _what you do, isn’t it?”

Han just stares at him. “You sure you’re a cop?”

“I am absolutely not a cop,” Luke says, just in case someone’s listening. Han pauses.

[ - - - ]

It feels like the world is ending. Luke’s head is pounding, the music is so loud and shitty and Han is glued to his side. The lighting is garbage and there are so many bodies in the huge, spacious center of the ship that Luke’s been sweating for thirty minutes straight. Luke hardly sweats, not since he left Tatooine. Han’s grinning, in his element, and all the weird tension between them dissolves in the sweaty atmosphere. 

Han grabs Luke’s hips, leans down to the shell of Luke’s ear.

“You distract them,” he whispers. Luke shivers against the timbre of Han’s voice. “I’ll get what we need.”

Luke nods, and it’s a beat, one, two, before Luke feels Han slide away in the crowd. He can see Jericho and Seren a few feet in front of him. There’s a second where he thinks _ I want to go home, _and then Seren spots Luke and moves toward him, like a panther stalking prey. Seren slides close to Luke, presses their bodies together, puts his mouth right by Luke’s ear.

“You know how to dance?”

Luke shakes his head a little. 

“I’ll teach you,” Seren purrs, and moves against Luke, fluid and easy. 

Luke tries to copy him, awkward like a newborn deer and he knows it, but tries anyway. He likes dancing against Seren’s body, the flat chest, the sharp angles of his hips. Seren is grinning at him, like he’s enjoying Luke’s flailing. He doesn’t know how long they spend, grinding and sliding against each other and everyone else, but eventually he feels someone come up behind him with purpose. 

Seren’s hands are sliding away as others replace them, and Han leans down to whisper in Luke’s ear: “All clear. Let’s get outta here, huh?”

Seren eyes them, and Han doesn’t loosen his hold on Luke a bit. Han’s hand slides down Luke’s waist, lower and lower, until he feels an object being slid into his pocket, then another, and then Han’s hand. Seren smirks, and turns, and lets himself be swallowed by the crowd.

Han and Luke begin to “dance”, allowing the crowd to push them toward the outskirts without moving with purpose. They don’t discuss it, just move against each other, tightly, like they’re just having fun. It feels better to dance with Han than it had with Seren - maybe it’s three years of complex, twisted history between them, or the fact that Luke know that Han cannot (will not) leave him, hurt him, let this end badly.

In the murky, sweaty, suffocating dance pit, surrounded by countless snowtroopers, a headache coming on, all Luke can focus on is _ Han, _right behind him.

The way Han touched him back then (the countless back-thens, all the times Han has touched Luke in all the years they’ve known each other), the way Han is touching him now, makes Luke think back to before. Before Han’s release, before now, before here, before all the things that make Luke think of it.

The backroom had been dim, blue-lit and dusty. It was in a frozen yogurt shop on one of the cities surrounding Duro, a front for Han’s _ real _business. Luke had walked in, gun drawn, tie loose, and Han was there, back turned, crouching and searching through one of the many boxes.

“Freeze,” Luke had said, and Han had turned slowly, and smiled at Luke. 

They make it to the edge of the crowd, and they wait until the lights dim and the song changes, and then - now - Han’s grabbing Luke’s hand and tugging him down the countless stainless-steel walls of the Snowtrooper cruiser, toward wherever the _ Falcon _must be. 

They reach the hangar without interruption and climb aboard the _ Falcon. _ Their escape is too easy, and part of Luke wants to be suspicious of it, but Han his beside him now, in the hangar, and his head is splitting apart from all that _ noise _ and stuff, and he can’t, no, don’t go, but he _ can’t think. _

Luke wakes up with Han, asleep, beside him, the _ Falcon _ cruising on autopilot. 


End file.
